


Lingua Franca

by Octinary



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Misunderstandings, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24856519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Octinary/pseuds/Octinary
Summary: After consuming an unknown potion, Geralt finds himself able to hear Jaskier’s thoughts.  Geralt does not think this will be a big deal:  his heightened senses give him an advantage on reading people anyways and it’s not like the other man keeps a lot to himself to begin with.Jaskier thinks this is going to be a disaster.Jaskier is correct.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 93
Kudos: 931





	Lingua Franca

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this post](https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/620656934497943552/okaybut-do-you-have-any-recs-for-geralt-being-able) by @valdomarx which speculates about the lack of fic in which Geralt can read Jaskier's mind.
> 
> From Wikipedia: A lingua franca, also known as a bridge language, is a language or dialect systematcially used to make communication possible between groups of people who do not share a native language or dialect...

“Ugh! By all the gods that is foul! Try this!” 

Geralt, sitting on the windowsill trying to repair a bracer in the bright morning light, looked up to see Jaskier bounding over from having just answered the door to their shared room. He had apparently received a small blue bottle of something noxious and was now fully intent on inflicting this concoction upon him. Seeing Geralt’s hands were full, Jaskier deftly moved to pour the liquid directly from the bottle he was holding into the witcher’s mouth, as if that was an indignity any fully sound adult would permit. “Give it here,” he snapped, heading off that ridiculous fancy by passing Jaskier the bracer and taking the bottle himself. Despite his much vaunted control and reputation for stoicism, he did pull a face when he swallowed a mouthful of the stuff. It was truly horrid. Well, with a review like that, Geralt didn’t know what else he had been expecting. “What is it?”

“No idea.”

Geralt stared at him incredulously. The bard’s complete lack of self-preservation never ceased to amaze.

Jaskier gestured vaguely at the door with the bracer. “The innkeeper brought it up. Said it was from an admirer.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust remembering the foul taste. “Although I worry what it says about me if this is how their preferences run…” To Geralt's keen eyes, the quick tensing of muscles through the bard’s body and increased heart rate indicated the ignition of his ill-timed fight or flight response. It was already several minutes too late to do any good. _Poison?_

Geralt snorted, unimpressed with what his reaction said about his faith in the witcher. Geralt wouldn’t have drank it if he’d smelled poison. “It’s not likely that dangerous. I don’t recognize the smell of any of the typical toxins and while it may be likely that you could anger someone enough to poison you, it’s less likely they would have bothered paying for something so exotic I wouldn’t recognize it.”

The momentary confusion that crossed Jaskier’s face as Geralt started talking quickly faded to relief as the logic of what he was saying sunk in and then very quickly bounced back to abject terror as Jaskier’s brain spun more fantasies. “My voice! What if it does something to my voice? Some competitor, some rival, some degenerate miscreant has done something to lay me low before the competition, knowing that this is the only possible hope they have of defeating-”

“If they did it’s taking an awfully long time to kick in.” Geralt exchanged the empty mystery bottle for his bracer on one of Jaskier’s passes. He had a tendency to pace when he panicked. 

_Not that you’d care._ Jaskier whirled to face him and glare.

The other man still read as more nervous than angry, so Geralt rolled his eyes, turned back to his repair work and ignored the obvious argument bait. Jaskier also had a tendency to get petulant when he panicked, but it was a nice day for early September, the festival, of which the aforementioned bardic competition was one component, was shaping up to be pretty good (at least if the smell of roasting food and tapped kegs outside was any indication), and Geralt didn’t want to fight. Besides, he’d already followed the bard here to see him compete at his request. How was that not caring?

Jaskier scoffed and turned away, predictably sulking. _I know you don’t give a rat’s ass, but this is really important to me. I don’t know why I thought asking you to come was a good idea. I don’t know why I keep trying-_

“You’re overreacting.” Geralt felt the need to interrupt before Jaskier got much further down that rabbit hole. It was getting a little more petulant than usual, veering into hurtful even. Typically, telling someone they were overreacting was not the best way to get them to calm down and look at the situation rationally, but if he could back Jaskier up into argument territory again he would at least be on familiar, if uncomfortable, ground.

He was expecting anger; he got confusion. “What?”

Well he could work with that. He hadn’t wanted a fight anyways. “It’s probably nothing - the bottle. Just a local specialty maybe.” He couldn’t help wrinkling his nose remembering the repugnant stuff. “With a very acquired taste.”

Jaskier bit his bottom lip and looked almost hopeful. The risk must have really rattled him. “You think?” _I do believe you’re trying to comfort me._

As with anything Jaskier said that was too embarrassing to deal with directly, Geralt simply pretended he hadn’t heard it and quickly changed the topic of conversation. “Or maybe it's some love potion. You did say it was from an admirer.”

The bard did laugh at that. “Then I really shouldn’t have shared it with you.”

“Inflicted it on me.”

“Can you imagine? Both of us fighting to bed the same person?” Jaskier was humming with amusement and a sort of mild competitive aggression: a state Geralt generally considered to be his resting default. Most people would think twice before even joking about fighting a witcher, but Jaskier never did. Besides, in this particular arena he likely rightly considered himself Geralt’s master. The man seemed capable of talking anyone into his bed, and he would have the added advantage in this fictional contest that the bottle had actually been sent for him. He was the one the unknown lover desired; Geralt being affected as well was only collateral damage. It didn’t bear thinking about. But at least he had waded through that minefield of a conversation relatively unscathed. He turned back to his mending. _Or we could always share. Oh yes, I could see that working out very nicely._

Geralt stabbed himself with the awl and promptly dropped his bracer. “Fuck!” He pressed his uninjured palm against the hole in its mate, but the pain was not nearly enough to adequately distract him from the immensity of Jaskier’s suggestion. “What?”

“Holy fuck! Did you actually just stab yourself?” Jaskier quickly pulled a handkerchief out of his doublet and bustled over to administer first aid. He’d sacrificed many a fine lace square to Geralt’s bloodstains over the years and had now taken to stocking a simpler linen variety. It was better for bandaging anyways.

“What?” Geralt did not give a fuck about the hole in his hand that Jaskier was fussing over. 

“You stabbed yourself! Did your hand slip? I’ve seen you do that thing with the bracer a hundred times and I’ve never seen you-”

“What did you say?”

“You’re bleeding!”

Geralt grabbed the handkerchief and wrapped it quickly around his palm, tucking the ends in tightly to form a simple bandage since he evidently wasn’t going to get anywhere with the earlier conversation until he had done so. “Before. What did you say?”

Jaskier looked baffled. It took him an obvious second to track his thoughts back past Geralt’s dramatic interlude. “We’ll have to fight over who gets to sleep with our mystery potion provider?”

Geralt narrowed his eyes and tried to determine if Jaskier was lying. All signs, from his heart rate to his steady gaze, pointed to no. Did he really not remember casually suggesting a threesome? The witcher sighed and covered his face with his uninjured hand, taking a second to quickly quash the unknown prickly feeling that had blossomed with the suggestion. (Terror? Anxiety? Anticipation?) Whatever it was, it didn’t warrant identifying since Jaskier couldn’t even remember his proposal. Of course he didn’t remember; he hadn’t meant it. He was just joking around, trying to get a rise out of Geralt, which, to be fair, he had done rather spectacularly.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s confused question was cut off by a trump from the main square where the festivities seemed to be getting under way. “Cock. I’ve got to run. It’s first come, first serve for sign-ups I’m afraid.” He slung his lute over his shoulder. “The whole thing’s about spontaneity, from the mad dash to register to the randomly chosen topic to the hectic composition and the final performances.” He paused at the doorway. “Which are around midafternoon, I may remind you.” 

Geralt nodded. They’d been over this on the way here. “And the draw’s at noon. I remember.”

Jaskier chewed the inside of his cheek in indecision for a second. He looked like he wanted to say something more, but thought better of it and turned away. _Are you okay? I’m worried about you._

And then said it anyway. Geralt couldn’t help but smile a little at Jaskier’s back from his seat on the sill. “It’s really nothing. Probably healed by nightfall.”

By the time Jaskier had turned back, Geralt had masterfully wrangled his face back under control. Despite the witcher’s dour resting expression, the bard smiled brightly - mostly relieved, but also a touch surprised - before disappearing into the hall humming happily. _That’s nice. I like it when you let me care for you._

To be fair, Geralt didn’t always respond to Jaskier’s prodding positively, or at all really, which was probably why the inquiries were much fewer and further between now than they were in the early years of their acquaintance. And they’d dropped off almost entirely since the incident after the dragon hunt… But no. That was in the past. Geralt was going to have a nice day with his friend; a distinction Geralt had finally begrudgingly admitted the bard possessed, at least in his own internal monologue. He was going to listen to Jaskier compete in this ridiculous competition, have a great quantity of beer and food, watch Jaskier find and woo his admirer and likely get this room to himself tonight for a good night’s rest. It was going to be fine.

*

By the time Geralt ventured out of the inn shortly before noon he had already taken the makeshift bandage off his hand. The wound had not been that deep in the first place and was already healing nicely and he would be damned if he had to explain to any curious onlooker that he had not, in fact, been injured heroically in the line of duty, but had instead stabbed himself with a leather-working tool because of Jaskier and his stupid distracting sex talk. The visible traces of his profession on his skin had become an odd and slightly morbid conversation starter whenever he encountered any of Jaskier’s more rabid fans. They, for reasons completely outside of his understanding, seemed to think it was a socially appropriate game to try and match particular scars to the highly fantasized versions of his fights that made it into the bard’s verses. He wouldn’t have put up with it at all, except he did have to admit, only to himself of course, that the songs did help his reputation. And Geralt being present when they were sung always seemed to help with Jaskier’s reputation, closing a positive feedback circle that had served them both well over the years. He knew it was the main reason why Jaskier had asked him to come today. But while showing up freshly bandaged might lend an even more mysterious (and therefore beneficial) air to the bard’s performance, someone was bound to ask about it and if Jaskier caught even a whiff of that conversation he would never live it down. This was decidedly not an incident that he wanted immortalised in song.

Jaskier hadn’t specifically asked him to be present at the drawing at noon when the competition’s theme would be selected, but he didn’t really have anything better to do and if it would help even a little (maybe intimidate the competition) he could earn some future good will from the other man. That was always a useful bargaining chip, especially considering how he naturally aggravated the bard with his presence. From the moment they met, Jaskier’s pupils seemed to dilate whenever he set his gaze on the witcher, his heart rate increased and his scent tended towards adrenaline and testosterone. Geralt was more than accustomed to the signs of a body getting ready to fight: that and fear were the two most common reactions to him among humans and animals alike. Geralt was useful enough to Jaskier though that the man never acted on his natural inclinations and instead managed to find a way to consider him a friend despite everything. It was impressive really and Geralt appreciated the effort.

From what he understood of this competition from Jaskier’s endless rambling on the way here, after the draw the competitors would have only a few hours to compose something. Those deemed best by the judges would perform in the main dining tents over dinner, which was an honour for sure, but also an opportunity to audition for the nobility and rich merchants present at the festival to peddle the produce from their farms and vineyards. For many winners, it was a gateway to potentially securing a winter appointment. Even barring the politics, it was also an opportunity at least to pass the hat through a happy, drunk, well fed, and, most importantly, financially secure crowd - the true prize for any performer accustomed to living hand-to-mouth. Geralt had not asked for directions to the tent that had been set aside for the competition when he had left the inn, figuring that even in the crowds he would be able to pick up Jaskier with his senses. Which he did. Although oddly, he heard him before anything else.

_He’s not coming. He’s not coming, but that’s okay because I didn’t actually ask him to come to this part. I did tell him when it was happening which a lot of people would take as a pretty significant hint, but I didn’t actually ask so he isn’t actually standing me up. I did ask him to come to the part where I’m actually competing and he did agree to come to that and I even reminded him this morning and he said he was still coming, or at least implied that he was still coming, so it is okay that he is not coming right now-_

“I’m here.”

Jaskier jumped, clearly not having heard Geralt enter the tent and move up behind him over his own litany. “Geralt! Ah!” _You came!_

“Were you talking to yourself?” There was no one else near enough to have been the recipient of Jaskier's aside. But if he’d been talking to himself, how had it been so easy to pick up over the din of the crowd? Especially even before he’d smelled him.

“What?” Jaskier smelled like sour sweat and his heart rate was way over normal. It was more than just being startled; he’d clearly been upset by something else first. Geralt scanned the small assembly of troubadours, officials and guests, but couldn’t see anything outright threatening. Which probably meant Jaskier had gotten himself into an interpersonal pickle again and that the invitation to watch him compete had actually been less about whatever benefit Geralt’s presence had for his reputation and more for whatever benefit Geralt’s presence had on discouraging angry ex-suitors. It would certainly explain why Jaskier had been so anxious about him attending this draw.

Geralt sighed and resigned himself to bodyguard duty. So he would now likely have to intercept a jilted lover (or lover’s significant other, or lover’s family member) before they could ruin Jaskier’s attempts at winning this thing. That was okay. That was usually easy. It could still be a good day. Only now, if there was someone actually out to get the bard, he was not going to allow him to go off with any mystery admirers. They could get a bottle of something, stay in tonight and play Gwent. Maybe that was even a better day, as long as the confrontation went smoothly. He scanned the crowd, trying to determine if anyone was paying them any undue attention. “Is there anyone in particular we should be worried about?”

 _You… you’re actually interested?_ When he turned to look at Jaskier his mouth was open in a small ‘o’, but it didn’t take him long to get over his surprise and start talking again. “Well, there for a start.” He gestured to a blond girl in a purple harlequin outfit. It really should have looked more ridiculous than attractive, but somehow she was pulling it off. “That is Priscilla and she is absolutely wonderful.” _And is definitely going to beat me. She makes me look like an illiterate child._ “And she is talking with Andi who won the whole thing last year and spent the winter living it up in Beauclair and will definitely want to secure another patronage this time. Once you get a taste of that life it’s hard to go back.” _Unless you’re an idiot like me, chasing something you can never catch._

Geralt smirked at the uncharacteristic self-deprecation. At least Jaskier knew his relentless quest for fame and notoriety was functionally endless. There would always be someone who hadn’t heard of you, no matter how far you travelled. The witcher felt that he didn’t necessarily want to debase him on the idea though. The thought of Jaskier finally being content with his celebrity and retiring to some permanent position made the path seem somehow longer. He could undoubtedly be annoying, but he did make things more interesting, for better and worse. Although Geralt would never tell him that. Well, not again.

Jaskier sighed dramatically before continuing. “And of course, there’s him.” _I can’t lose to him again. I just can’t. I’ll die of shame. It’s been years. I have to have gotten better._ Jaskier gestured to a well-dressed man, probably around his own age, surrounded by what appeared to be his students. “Valdo Marx.” _Asshole, but infuriatingly good at his craft. And absolutely merciless._

“The guy you tried to wish dead?”

Jaskier cringed. “Maybe don’t say that quite so loud…”

“And he wants revenge for that?” The man was frequently shifting his gaze to where Geralt and Jaskier were standing. Out of everyone so far he was behaving the most suspiciously.

“What? No. Does he?” _I just don’t want him to tease me ruthlessly for failing._

“So it’s one of the girls who wants to kill you?”

“Kill!?!” Jaskier’s trained voice travelled quite well when he was that loud. Valdo turned quickly to see what the commotion was about, his long coat twirling away to reveal a familiar blue bottle at his waist. That was all the evidence Geralt needed to at least instigate a serious conversation with the man.

Confirming the witcher’s suspicions, as soon as he started for him, Valdo’s eyes went wide with guilt and he turned and ran. A light Aard to trip him up, and Geralt caught him easily before he’d even got out of the tent. While he was definitely heftier than Jaskier it was still not hard to lift him off his feet. He could do it one handed even.

Behind him he could hear Jaskier’s panicked monologue to the rest of the assembly. _Valdo actually wants to kill me? For real? I didn’t think he had it in him. But Geralt’s got him! Sweet Melitele and all her priestesses, he’s strong. Whoa - no focus! How did Geralt know? Why did Geralt think I knew? Oh gods! The bottle! It was poison! I’m going to die! I’m going to die without-_

“You’re not going to die.” Geralt pulled the bottle from its fastenings at his captive's waist and held it up. It was empty. Had he been poisoning someone else too? They would have to act fast. He basically growled out, “What is this?”

He needn’t have bothered trying to be more threatening. The man was already terrified and more than willing to talk. “Potion! Of shared mind! I got it from a witch outside Vizima! It’s bunk though! Nothing! Doesn’t work! Just tastes like shit.”

If he’d taken it himself it was definitely non-lethal. Geralt put him down, but kept a hold of his collar. 

“What was it supposed to do?” Jaskier asked from where he was trying to loom menacingly over Geralt’s shoulder, which he was technically tall enough to do. The effect was somewhat diminished though by the fact that he had to stand slightly on his toes.

“Let me read your mind. If two people drink from the same batch, it’s supposed to let the second read the thoughts of the first. I sent it to your room this morning and I just drank my half before getting here a few minutes ago, but you don’t have to worry because I’m getting absolutely nothing.”

_You thought it would give you an edge against me in the competition… You’re just as scared of me as I am of you. I was so worried about competing against all of these masters and they’re all just as nervous as I am. It’s almost funny._

Geralt could practically taste the relief coming off of Jaskier. So he hadn’t asked Geralt here for protection? He wasn’t scared of anyone else here, just anxious about the competition? Did Jaskier get anxious about those types of things? It’s true Geralt had never been to see him compete before, but he always seemed to exude confidence in his bardic abilities. He’d seen Jaskier jittery before a performance, but it had always seemed more like frustration and there had always been some kind of mitigating circumstance: a string he hadn’t had time to replace and was worried would snap or an unfriendly face in the crowd or bad wine that had put him off. He supposed some emotions did produce similar physical responses in people, like nerves and frustration. It seemed impossible he could have been misreading him for all these years though. 

“Please don’t have your witcher kill me.”

 _My witcher? That’s delicious._ “Wait. How do I know it isn’t actually working and you aren’t just lying and planning to steal my work after all?”

“He isn’t lying.” Geralt let the other man go. Valdo quickly scampered back to his circle of students. He didn’t flee the tent though. Apparently he possessed the balls to stay in the competition even after being called out for his scheme and threatened by the witcher. Geralt was begrudgingly impressed.

Jaskier yelled as he retreated, confidence obviously restored enough to start razzing him for his failed plot. “Hey, Valdo! What number am I thinking of?” _Eight._

Which is when Geralt finally put two and two together. “Shit.”

“Mmm?” Jaskier turned to him questioningly.

Geralt held up the empty blue bottle. “Eight.”

All he got off Jaskier as the man mentally replayed this morning's events in light of Valdo's confession was a vague hum, his thoughts clearly too frantic to be actually articulated. When he caught up his eyes went wide with shock. “Shit!”

*

“So let me get this straight,” Yennefer turned the bottle idly in her hands as she sorted through their story. “You just drank something that came to your room from an anonymous donor without even knowing what it was?”

“Geralt drank it too!”

“I didn’t drink something that randomly came to the room. I drank something you gave me!”

“Without knowing what it was.” No potion was required to discern exactly how intelligent the sorceress imagined them both to be. 

As soon as Jaskier had discovered what was happening he had insisted on finding someone to reverse the effect of the potion immediately. A hectic tour of the town had yielded no witch, mage, sorceress or pellar capable of assisting, so they had retreated to a secluded alleyway and called Yennefer. Geralt felt a mild twinge of guilt, this was almost assuredly not the type of emergency she had had in mind when she’d given him the xenovox, but he was grateful she came nevertheless. Or at least he had been grateful until she had started talking.

“And the potion took effect immediately?”

Jaskier shook his head. “No, it wasn’t until around noon-”

Geralt, who now saw Jaskier’s frank openness all day in a new light, winced. “Yes.”

 _Wait, what?!?_ “You’ve been able to hear me think all morning and you didn’t deign to mention this to-”

“I didn’t figure it out until Marx described how the potion works. Your thoughts - they just sound like you speaking aloud to me.” Jaskier was still doubtful, so Geralt added, “I did think you were being more talkative than usual.”

“He can be more talkative than usual?”

“How did you not realize you were hearing my thoughts?!?”

The entire point in calling Yennefer from the alleyway had been to try to minimize the attention they were drawing. Jaskier did not want this story getting out, especially given the talent present and subsequent number of very catchy tunes it could spawn at his expense. Geralt sagely realized that pointing out that the bard’s hysterics were likely to draw the very attention he was trying to avoid was a good way to start a fight. And he wasn’t supposed to be fighting with Jaskier today.

Yennefer mercifully decided to defuse the situation by staying on topic. “So you’re hearing complete sentences?”

“For the most part.”

“You’re probably not getting everything then.”

_Oh thank all the gods._

“It probably mimics what we’re first taught to do at Aretuza: scanning the surface thoughts. Most people don’t always think in complete articulate sentences. Deeper stuff is usually more of a muddle. You read it as a feeling or a physical response or something. I was in a woman’s head once while she was giving birth. Trust me, there were no full sentences there. It just made me irritable and made my muscles ache.”

_She can be more irritable than usual?_

Geralt sighed and smacked Jaskier lightly. Playing referee between Jaskier and Yen was always exasperating. “She’s trying to help. Don’t push your luck.”

The sorceress furrowed her brow in confusion and Jaskier clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes closed in barely contained frustration.

“Hmm.” Geralt looked awkwardly away. “That, uh, wasn’t out loud was it?”

“Regardless of whatever petty nonsense is flitting about in your mostly vacant head, the safest thing for me to do is nothing. And believe me, if there was something I could do I would do it. Not to save whatever face you think you have left, but simply because no one deserves to be subject to even more of your prattling.”

Geralt had long ago given up on trying to understand why the two people he cared most about always seemed to invariably rub each other the wrong way. He stepped between them, breaking their eye contact and distracting Yennefer before Jaskier could think of something cruel to say back. Or think back very loudly. “So what do we do?”

“Whatever you were doing before. Some competition, you said? No sane being would want perpetual unfettered access to his inane musings. It will wear off on its own. You said it was some rival, right?” Something pleasant crossed her mind and changed her tone. “Oh! Wait! They have the wine competition on here now too, don’t they? The red that won last year was absolutely divine-”

“Yen! Focus, please!”

“Don’t growl at me. The spell will probably end at sundown. That's the way these things usually work.” She was not making a great effort at hiding the fact that she was suddenly very interested in locating a specific tent. “I’ll stick around, you know, just to be sure.”

_Yeah, right._

Geralt huffed his agreement with Jaskier’s statement then realized he wasn’t exactly sure if it had actually been a statement or just a sentiment. With a sigh he covered his eyes, momentarily incapable of facing reality. He could feel a headache coming on. “Bright blue tent. West end of the square. We’ll know where to find you.”

“Great!” And in a bustle of black skirt, she was gone.

_This is going to be a nightmare._

“You’re not the one getting a headache.”

“Stop doing that!” Jaskier’s physical voice was uncomfortably higher pitched than his mental voice right now. Maybe Geralt could use that as a marker.

The witcher grit his teeth, partially in pain, but mostly in annoyance. “I can’t!”

“Well, try!”

“What do you want me to do? Watch your mouth?”

There was a spike of adrenaline, a noticeable uptick in his heartbeat and Jaskier’s breath caught for a second: an obvious jump in Jaskier’s baseline aggression towards him. The bard’s thoughts were mostly a hum with only a few distinct words however. _Lips… tempting… what would you do if I..._

"I don’t see why this is bothering you so much. You say everything that crosses your mind out loud anyways." Geralt figured he better cut him off before the smaller man actually tried punching him in the face or something.

“Obviously not!”

Geralt scoffed. “Between you always running your mouth and my senses you are an open book.”

“What?” _Senses? Oh gods, can he smell…?_

“Smell. See. Hear. Pheromones, muscles, eyes, heartbeat. The mutations enhanced all my senses. You’re not that hard to read.” 

Jaskier looked very much like a deer caught in the hunter’s sights as he processed this new information. _Oh gods. I did know that. You told me that. I should have thought of that. What kind of idiot am I? This whole time you’ve known and this whole time you’ve been answering me and this whole time it’s been hopeless and-_

“It doesn’t bother me.” Jaskier was starting to look like maybe he would cry, which Geralt knew people sometimes did when they were frustrated, and he wanted to head that off. He didn’t like it when Jaskier cried. Plus he was feeling magnanimous, since even in his internal monologue regarding Geralt’s freakish senses Jaskier hadn’t thought of him as a monster. He actually apparently seemed to regret and want to hide his inherent disgust of the witcher from Geralt. That was surprisingly pleasant to discover. Although it was upsetting that he seemed to think Geralt would hold a grudge against him for his aggressive thoughts, or worse, respond with retaliation for them. “Adrenaline and an increased heart rate. I already knew that I made you angry a lot even before this. Lots of people want to fight me. You don’t act on it. And you think nice things about me too sometimes.” That was a lot more embarrassing to actually say out loud than he had imagined. And it didn’t even have the intended effect. Jaskier was just staring at him blankly. This is exactly why he didn’t bother talking much.

_You… you think that’s me getting angry with you? This whole time? You see what you do to me and that’s the conclusion you jumped to? This has to be some kind of insane joke. No one is that bad at communication. I am not that bad at communication!_

“Anyways,” Geralt uncomfortably continued, “it isn’t anything I’m not used to. And I’ve been around a while. Seen a lot of your flings and fits too. There isn’t anything you are going to think that will upset me.” He turned to head back to the festival and out of this conversation. He really should have known Jaskier was physically incapable of turning down a challenge.

_I lost my virginity at 15 to a witcher in the horse stables on my family's estate._

Geralt did not stumble over his own feet. It was more like his feet did not get the memo that the rest of his body was actually turning around to gawk at Jaskier and so kept on towards the cacophony of the square without his upper half. The end result was his exceedingly ungraceful descent to the ground which he would have been a whole lot more embarrassed about, especially considering he'd already stabbed himself today, if he had had any mental faculties left that were not devoted to trying to decipher what he had just heard. "What?!?"

Jaskier sighed and stepped over his friend, heading towards the end of the alley.

"Tell me that isn't true! Jaskier!" Geralt managed to clamour to his feet and stumble after him. "It isn't true, right? Right? Jaskier!"

_...amber eyes, blown wide with lust… long, dark hair, my fingers tangled in it...strong enough to hold me up with one arm… scars all along his torso, licking my way..._

"Argh!" The witcher threw his hands up as if a physical defense could stop the mental onslaught. 

When he lowered them, Jaskier was staring at him unblinking and unmistakably not amused. "Oh yeah. This is going to go swimmingly."

*

“Berengar?”

_No._

“Lambert?”

_No._

“Aiden?”

_No._

“Coen?”

_No._

“Eskel?”

_No._

“Oh gods, Vesemir? No, he wouldn’t have had dark hair-”

 _No._ “Just out of morbid curiosity, are you listing the members of your profession in order of most likely candidate to least, or were you starting with who you would be most comfortable with killing and moving down from there?”

Geralt had quickly discovered that while Jaskier had insisted he did not want to talk about it, he was incapable of not thinking the answers to direct questions. It might be underhanded, but he was not going to let this lie. “There aren’t that many witchers around. I should be able to find the one who raped you.”

“What? No!” _What did I think that implied-_ “It was completely consensual.”

“Fifteen year olds can’t consent to adults three or four times their age. Letho? He’s bald now, but I think his hair is dark naturally.”

_Oh… cock._

"It is Letho!"

 _No!_ “Would you stop it?! I am supposed to be composing! I have a very limited amount of time left in which to write something impressive, especially given that a large portion of the allotted afternoon was wasted consulting Yennefer on how to get you out of my head which she did not even manage to do! I can’t think with you listing people at me!” Given no other options and desperate for something that would keep his internal monologue focused and off of topics he didn’t want to share, Jaskier had taken Yennefer’s advice and returned to what he would have been doing if this whole mess hadn’t happened. The topic was apparently the transient beauty of summer flowers, which seemed suitably pretentious for the occasion, and when Geralt wasn’t listing names Jaskier was doing his best to come up with an interpretation that was sweet, poignant and not overly trite. _Okay, I’ve got dandelions and sunflowers for the vibrancy of summer, now I need something soft and gentle and delicate. Oh! What were those little white things Geralt stopped to pick on the way here?_

“White myrtle.” Geralt snorted. “But they’re hardly delicate. They’re common as weeds and ridiculously hardy. Grow just about anywhere. Useful though.”

Jaskier snapped the point of his quill. Geralt was doing a spectacularly bad job of staying out of his head. “Do you want to write this?”

“Not in the least. I want you to give me what I need to know to do my job.”

“Tracking down my old flings and murdering them isn’t your job! No one is paying you to do that!” _That’s all I ever am to you: work._

“It’s professional.” And personal, actually, if he was being honest. If Jaskier was repressing or romanticizing an abusive relationship with a witcher, that might explain why he was drawn to Geralt in the first place. It had nothing to do with him actually liking Geralt or wanting to be with Geralt: he was just a substitute for the witcher he actually wanted to care for him. Or maybe forcing himself to be near Geralt was a way for him to face his trauma, to prove that he wasn’t scared of what had hurt him. It almost certainly explained why he had been so loath to let Geralt know the reaction he elicited in him; his body was intimately familiar with how easily the mutant could overpower him and take whatever he wanted. All of the possibilities made Geralt feel ill and want to hit someone. Specifically the someone who had hurt Jaskier and in so doing casually invalidated the best friendship he’d had in his entire life. If only Jaskier would cooperate.

Instead Jaskier smacked the table in front of him, scattering rejected pieces of failed drafts. “This is work. This is literally my work and I can’t do it with you hovering around like some puffed up bumblebee looking for someone to sting!”

“But this is important.” In Geralt's defense, he did realise it had been the wrong thing to say before Jaskier's thoughts assailed him, just not before he’d actually said it. Which is when the information would have been more useful.

The bard put down his quill and stared at Geralt straight on. _To you! And that’s all that matters, isn’t it? Whatever is important to you! You don’t want to be here. You just want someone to fight. Some righteous hill you can try to get yourself killed on. You don’t care about me at all. You don’t even like me._ “Please just go.”

Geralt fled. He’d never regretted being so wrong before. Despite his earlier conviction, he had already learned several things that had upset him. Not the least of which being exactly what Jaskier was thinking every time he looked at him like that. And he looked at him like that a lot.

*

“Jaskier thinks I don’t like him.”

“And the sun rises in the east.”

“What?” Geralt could smell the wine on Yennefer and see that she was a little less than perfectly poised, but she was hardly intoxicated enough to be incoherent.

“I thought we were stating obvious things.” The sorceress lifted her goblet and it was quickly refilled by a passing waitress. It seemed like she had moved into the wine tasting tent shortly after their earlier conversation and had every intent to stay there until they closed down for the night. If they closed down for the night. She radiated obnoxious content.

He sat himself down on the bench across the table from her and decided, for the sake of expediency, to ignore her sarcasm. “Why would Jaskier think I don’t like him?”

“Why would he think you do like him?”

Geralt furrowed his brow. The question was patently ridiculous. “I’ve saved his life.”

Yennefer arched her own brow in challenge. “You save lots of people’s lives.” 

“Hm.” That wasn’t exactly untrue. Geralt flailed desperately for something else to say. He’d honestly thought the life saving would have mattered for more.

“What, in particular, prompted this revelation now?”

“I’m trying to kill someone for him.” There. That had to be proof that he liked him.

“You kill lots of people.” Yennefer was not impressed. “Did he ask you to kill someone for him?”

“No.”

“Did he seem grateful when you offered to kill someone for him?”

“Not exactly.”

“Did he, in fact, tell you not to get involved and to leave the matter alone, because he is an adult and capable of dealing with the consequences of his own actions, but you figured you knew better and pushed him until he snapped at you?”

Geralt did not feel the need to answer that question. “I travel with him. I help him when he asks. I provide material for his songs. I disappear when he's chasing tail. I reappear before he gets himself gelded for chasing the wrong tail. I stay out of his way as much as possible. I came here just because he asked me to accompany him.” He stared at his hands on the table, scarred and worn. His fingers were twitching, itching to act, but at this moment he just felt helpless, entirely unaware of where to direct his energy to fix this. He hadn’t wanted to fight with Jaskier today. It was supposed to be a good day. “What else am I supposed to do?” 

Yennefer was silent for a minute, sizing him up. “You really don’t know, do you?” She sounded almost incredulous.

Geralt stood to leave, not just the conversation and the tent but the city. This had been an awful idea. Jaskier was angry and didn’t want him around so he would just leave until he calmed down like he usually did. Maybe in the spring enough time would have passed that this would be just another bad memory. What was one more awkward parting between them?

“Oh for fuck’s sake, wait.” He turned back to the sorceress who looked very much like she already regretted what she was about to say. “Sit.” Yennefer drained her glass and stared into the dregs looking for inspiration. Or possibly courage. Whatever it was she found it and her eyes flashed upwards to meet Geralt’s. “You told me once you’d do anything to save him. You told me you would regret it if the last thing you said to him was unkind. Did you ever tell him?”

Geralt fidgeted under her concentrated gaze. When she was like this, all fire and intensity, it was easy to remember why he’d been enamoured with her. And just as easy to remember why it hadn’t worked. “You said earlier that saving his life doesn’t count-”

“Shut up. I was not talking about what you did. I know what you did. And I know you think you’ve done a lot for him over the years and I know you have done a lot, especially for you, but,” Yennefer looked at the goblet in her own gloved hands for a second. On any other person, Geralt would assume the look she was fighting to conceal was embarrassment, but this was Yen so that couldn’t be right. “Once, when I was upset and untethered, you told me I was important to you. Did you ever tell him?” The unknown expression passed and her eyes flicked back up to his, cold violet. “And for all your vaunted ability to read people, did you ever ask?”

“Ask what?” Geralt felt like he couldn’t look away from her gaze. He was so close to something and Yennefer had the answer and if she would just- 

She scoffed and turned away, denying him. “No. That’s all the kindness you get from me on this.” She waved for another refill. “I think I’ve already done more than anyone could reasonably expect from their ex considering the circumstances.”

Geralt was not sure she had actually done much. She hadn’t given him the answer, just sort of implied that one existed. “If you knew Jaskier thought I didn’t like him, why didn’t you mention it to me before now?”

“Why should I? For one thing, I don’t like him and for another, he’s supposedly your,” she waved her hand noncommittally, “friend. Not mine.”

There was an uncomfortable level of suggestion layered on the word friend that Geralt did not feel like dealing with right now. Especially not with Yennefer. At least she hadn’t tried to claim ignorance of the whole situation. The witcher knew she could scan his surface thoughts easily enough and undoubtedly Jaskier’s as well. He shuddered to think of the years of amusement she must have gotten off of the two of them.

“Oh, regardless of how this plays out, I anticipate you both will continue to be amusing for many more years to come.”

“... Jaskier’s right. That is annoying.”

*

“You didn’t come see me perform.” 

Jaskier was sitting in the windowsill of their room drinking when Geralt came in, where he himself had been only that morning, back before everything had gone to hell. If he’d saved that one damned djinn wish, he’d want to go back to that moment and smash the damn bottle to pieces before either of them had drunk from it. “Hm.” He closed the door, but didn’t move any further into the room. “You told me to go.”

Jaskier laughed sharply. “Of course.” _I mean I said that specifically in the context of you not bugging me while I was working and I only asked you to come see me compete half a hundred times so I can see where you got confused. Ass._

Geralt had picked up Jaskier’s presence in the room while climbing the stairs and frozen there for a solid minute, unsure of whether or not to continue on. His decision to retreat to the inn had been based on the idea that it had seemed like a safe place to wait for a hopefully happier Jaskier to return to much later that evening, sated with wine, woman and song. He honestly hadn’t expected to find him there this early. Even if Jaskier hadn’t won the entire competition, it seemed unbelievable that he would not have at least placed high enough to earn a spot performing in the tents tonight. Instead he was up here drinking alone. That was actually what had convinced Geralt to risk the interaction: he knew Jaskier hated drinking alone. He just wasn’t sure if maybe Jaskier didn’t hate him more right now though. “How did it go?”

 _Oh just great! That’s why I’m here getting soused by myself!_ “You’ve got all the fancy senses. You tell me.” _It was awful. I was awful and it was humiliating. I couldn't write anything, even with you gone. Especially with you gone._ Jaskier took a long swig from the bottle.

If Yennefer was right and there was an answer, he wasn’t going to find it here tonight. Geralt turned to leave.

“No. I’ve got something to say to you.” Jaskier shuffled over, making room in the windowsill. When Geralt joined him, he passed him the bottle. Geralt briefly considered making a joke about accepting unknown drinks from the bard, but it didn’t seem appropriate and he could easily smell that it was vodka. Jaskier turned to look out the window behind them as Geralt drank. _Sun’s down. It’s finally over._

He ran his hands through his hair in frustration and there was the familiar hum over the link that Geralt recognized as Jaskier gathering his wits before embarking on something big. It had been there when he’d left the room in the morning, after the incident with Marx at the draw and when they were talking to Yennefer in the alley. His heart rate was increasing, adrenaline flowing, muscles tensing. To Geralt’s senses, he was getting ready for a fight - a fight he had been saving for when his thoughts were his own again. But the sun was not down. Geralt should really mention to Jaskier that the sun was not down. Except this whole day which he had set aside explicitly to have fun and not fight with Jaskier had gone sideways rather spectacularly and without the telepathic spying he was undoubtedly going to say the wrong thing and make this worse. He had to do something to make this better. Jaskier deserved someone who could make this better and given the lack of any other candidates, Geralt was going to have to try.

The bard turned back to face him, fire in his eyes. “You know the most frustrating part about this whole mess?” _The hope._

The thought stung, sharp and bright and surprising. This might be harder than he had thought it would be. He swallowed hard. “What?”

“Thinking that you were actually noticing me at all.” _That you actually cared at all._

“I notice you.”

“Yes, apparently you’ve been sniffing me and jumping to conclusions which isn’t at all invasive and creepy, not to mention downright condescending.” _Like I’m just an animal. As easy to manage as Roach._

“I can’t just turn off my senses any more than you can-”

"How old was I when I met you?" _You’re going to say eighteen, aren’t you?_

"Eighteen!" That was actually an easy one; Geralt didn’t even need the unspoken prompt. Jaskier told the story of their meeting to literally everyone he came across. Geralt must have heard it secondhand a hundred times at least.

Unfortunately giving the answer that Jaskier was expecting seemed to be a trap. One immaculately manicured brow crept up in disdain. "That's how old I say I was, how old was I really?" _You don't even think of me as a person, just an accessory to your story. Some background character wandering through the scenes, stirring up trouble. As easy to write out as leave in._

Fuck. This conversation was taking a turn for the worse.

"You bumped into me by accident in Oxenfurt on my 21st birthday, remember? I was drunk out of my mind, but you were stone cold sober, so you should know. You didn't even stick around 'til the morning though, Anna had to tell me over breakfast that you were even there." _You don't remember. You don't remember anything._

That wasn't entirely fair; he'd bought Jaskier a drink to celebrate that night. How was it his fault the other man was blackout drunk for it? He'd seemed so in his element with his school friends and Geralt hadn't wanted to intrude, to bring down the festive atmosphere with his menacing presence. He'd assumed Jaskier hadn't even noticed he'd gone. "That's not‐"

Jaskier wasn’t giving any quarter though. "Scratch that, how old am I now? I'll even take either the right answer or the answer that would be right if I was actually eighteen when we met." _Nothing ever mattered to you. Twenty-six years and none of it even-_ The thought stopped suddenly as the sun finally did sink below the horizon. That was it. Barring any further magic, that was the last of Jaskier's thoughts he was ever going to be unwillingly privy to. But at least he'd gotten that last answer. All Geralt had to say was 44 and he'd win this argument and things could go back to normal.

Jaskier looked away, already disappointed and defeated and quite possibly on the verge of tears, and somehow, even without the telepathic link, Geralt could tell that answering his question correctly wouldn't change that. And he found that he did, very much, want to change that.

"68."

Jaskier wrinkled his brow in confusion for a second and then scoffed and rolled his eyes. "I see you've been training with Yennefer. Resorting to age based insults. Very mat-"

"There are 68 verses to The Fishmonger's Daughter. That you've written at least - I have heard some imitations. It amuses you to leave it at 68 since everyone thinks that surely there must be 69, one last dirty joke for a song full of dirty jokes, and that they are just missing one."

"What-"

"You've followed me on 261 hunts and actually stayed where I told you to during exactly one of them."

"That's not-"

"Something, or someone, you've done has prevented me from getting paid eight times. Conversely, you've managed to embellish the story enough that I've got paid extra seventeen times, so you're still ahead."

"How-"

"You've needed 47 stitches as a result of travelling with me, and four that I don't count since you deserved that serving tray smashed over your head for standing that barmaid up. She waited for hours in the rain. You were a clod."

"You hadn't come back and I was worried sick! So hang me if I completely forgot-"

"You play seven instruments: lute, harpsichord, flute, violin, drum, horn and harp. You're shit at the horn though. You've lost two teeth: one to Toruviel when she was kicking the crap out of us and one to a bar fight in Blackbough. You've got almost three octaves vocal range, but you're not as high as you used to be and are insecure about it so you get pitchy in your upper register. You've broken one bone, right ankle, not with me and my guess is it was when you were quite young given how it's healed. You've had nine songs accepted for archiving at the academy, won the competition at Novigrad twice, not consecutively, and allowed three students to list you as their master at Oxenfurt. One of them has won Novigrad twice consecutively, but for poetry, not song."

Jaskier was just staring at him now, mind and mouth silent as Geralt ran through the litany of numbers he did know about the other man: every fact and tidbit he'd carefully tucked away over the apparently two and a half decades they'd known each other. Each one as precious to him as the relationship itself. As the man himself. Not that he'd ever said it before. Not out loud. For the first time in his life, Geralt thought maybe that was the problem. "You do matter. I do care. I do notice. I'm sorry I didn't say it before. I'm sorry you didn't know. I do remember.” He took another drink from the bottle of vodka. “Well, some things at least. I have no idea how old you are."

The silence stretched until it started to feel oppressive, both of them sitting on the windowsill, not looking at each other, just staring at the wall across from them. It felt like another 26 years before he felt a familiar hand on his. "I'm 43."

Geralt huffed out a breath of air he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. Relief flowed through him like white honey through poisoned veins after a hunt. In light of the release he was feeling, the inconsequence of Jaskier’s lie seemed particularly trivial. "Really? You were 17 when we met? You lied to age yourself up one year?"

"Hey! At 17 that one year really matters!"

"You're ridiculous."

"Whatever. That one year makes me legally an adult in most places so you don't look like a monster who drags children into danger. As it's primary defender, I am always considerate of your much maligned reputation."

"You lie to the other witcher who raped you about your age too?"

“It wasn’t rape-”

“You were 15. He had to be at least-”

"He was also 15."

"That's impossible. The youngest witcher is-"

"Wasn't a witcher. Just a stable boy in my father’s employ.” The bard chewed on the inside of his cheek, looking a little guilty. His thumb was tracing mollifying patterns where it rested on Geralt’s hand, probably concerned about him running away. “I thought saying, well thinking, it was a witcher would get a rise out of you and you were being a condescending prick. I actually didn’t consider how really creepy the age difference would have been until you pointed it out later. I was going for 19-15-witchers-aren’t-untouchable-gods-so-fuck-you-get-off-your-high-horse-Geralt, not 90-15-you-need-to-go-murder-someone-to-redeem-my-honour-this-is-kind-of-creepy."

"Hmm." There was a moment of peaceful silence and Geralt took stock of the situation. Jaskier’s heart rate was slightly elevated, but steady. He smelled a touch aggressive, but not overmuch so. His hand where it was still holding Geralt’s was warm, but not clammy with sweat. He was only mildly committed to this fight, so Geralt felt it was worth risking the nascent peace to belabour his point. “19-15 would still be-”

Jaskier sighed with great exaggeration and let his head clonk down on Geralt’s shoulder in what had to be the least effective headbutt the witcher had ever been subjected to. "See? It did get a rise out of you.” He didn’t seem to be in any sort of hurry to move his head after the tepid attack. A passerby looking up at their shadows in the window might even think he had rested it there affectionately. “I know you too, you know." 

And an insidious little seed of thought finally took root in Geralt’s mind, as if it had been stubbornly subsiding in the hostile environment of his head for years, biding it’s time for the perfect moment to sprout and change everything. Maybe Jaskier had left his head on Geralt’s shoulder affectionately. Maybe he wasn’t holding his hand just to keep him from leaving. Maybe the elevated heart rate and whiff of testosterone wasn’t from a fight response. Maybe it was something else. There was absolutely no way for him to know now. Except… "What are you thinking?"

Jaskier brought their joined hands to his lips and held them there while he whispered, “I feel like I’ve been waiting for you to say that for-"

“26 years?”

“Asshole.”

“So tell me.”

And he did.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr ([octinary.tumblr.com](https://octinary.tumblr.com/)) if you want to talk/ask me anything.


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